The Winter Beasts
by Jen Martin
Summary: December 1944- As news of the massacre at Malmedy spreads, Saunders wrestles his own demons when he captures an SS officer with a reputation for sadism. When a storm isolates his patrol in the forest, Saunders realizes the nightmare is just beginning.
1. An Execution

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 1: An Execution**_

Sergeant Saunders dug his fingers into his eyes, wishing he could stab out the throbbing behind them. In spite of Doc's aspirin the nagging pain persisted. He could hardly remember ever having a headache before the war, except that time he stepped inside Fred Brown's swing on the sandlot. Fred had cussed him for a careless fool. _Careless_. Saunders' mouth twitched up in a mirthless smile. Nobody could accuse him of that now.

The lives of his men depended on his ability to constantly absorb and analyze information around him, however insignificant. Trudging through the damp forest, wearier than he had any right to be, Saunders let the data flow over him like a teletype newsfeed. How far up was the point? Was the branch that moved to his left just a squirrel settling its fat rear end or something more sinister? Were the clouds building off to the west going to drop a bucket of icy rain on them again before they got back to the farmhouse?

He sighed, shifting the Tommy gun cradled in his arms. Caje had the point and was still within view, the squirrel was just a squirrel, and they might make it back from patrol before the skies opened if nothing delayed them.

Caje made an abrupt gesture, instinctively folding into a crouch, and Saunders waved for the others to scatter into the undergrowth. Headache forgotten, he moved swiftly and silently to the private's side.

"You should've let Kirby stop and rest when he was whining about it back there," Caje whispered, his tone as dry as dead leaves. "Looks like we got to the party five minutes too soon." As Saunders followed his gaze, the Cajun felt a jolt of surprise run through the sergeant's body.

A dozen local men were gathered in a secluded glen beneath them. Trees grew tall around it like a stockade, their bare branches slickened to icy points. The men had arranged themselves in a circle, each grasping a stout wooden stick. A SS officer stood in the center of the group, his arms tightly bound to his sides with thick ropes. As the Americans watched, one of the Frenchman stepped forward with his club raised and the German retreated a step, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the men behind him. Saunders narrowed his eyes as he watched the drama unfolding below. There was no shouting, no cat-calling, no pleading—no sound at all to break the quiet of the winter afternoon. It was like that silent movie he'd seen when he was just a little kid, _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. Only this time Saunders wasn't afraid of the mob and he wasn't jumping out of his seat to rush to Quasimodo's defense, either.

Beside him, Caje shifted restlessly. "That's Dubois," he said in surprise, recognizing the leader of the group. "I met him on patrol three days ago. He's big with the maquis in this district." He glanced at Saunders. "What do we do, Sarge?"

"What do you mean, 'What do we do?'," Saunders said irritably. "What do you think?" The Frenchman swung his club and the German staggered as it connected with his shoulder. He didn't cry out. Instead, he threw his whole weight against his assailant in a sudden burst of vicious energy. _Purposeless bravado. A mad dog cornered, snapping at anything within reach. Typical of the SS_. "Did you tell Dubois we need prisoners?"

Caje nodded, perplexed. "Yeah, I told him." They watched as another man grabbed the German's arm, pulling him away from Dubois and flinging him to the ground.

"Doesn't listen too good, does he?" Saunders rubbed his hands over his eyes, contemplating rescuing the SS officer with distaste. It didn't help that it felt like someone had put a band around his skull and was slowly tightening it. "I wish I'd let Kirby take ten, but it's too late now." Gesturing for the others to advance, he began to carefully pick his way down the steep hillside, Caje at his heels.

X X X

"_Arr__êtez, mes amis!"_ Caje's voice broke over the glen and the Frenchmen whirled, shotguns and rifles quickly replacing the clubs in their hands.

Saunders sauntered forward, nonchalantly pushing cold barrels aside as he made his way to the center of the circle. His disdainful gaze fell on the German at his feet. Saunders suspected the man was tall, but it was hard to tell when he was curled on his side, legs drawn up to protect his stomach. The silver at his temples told Saunders he wasn't a young man and the dried blood on the side of his torn jacket spoke of a hidden wound. _Probably how they managed to capture him._ Satisfied the prisoner's ragged breathing meant he would live, Saunders studied the sullen faces surrounding him. "What's going on here?"

"It's not for you to concern yourself," Dubois said, his face red with cold and fury. "Go on your way!"

"I'd like to," Saunders said, "but I have orders to bring back prisoners. Private LeMay told you we need them." There had been very few taken in the last week, since news of the massacre at Malmedy had circulated through the front. Saunders understood his fellow soldiers' feelings all too well. A job was a job, though, and sergeants didn't get to make the rules. With effort, he swallowed his anger and forced himself to touch his enemy's hated uniform. Grimacing as he dug his fingers into the dirty wool jacket, he dragged the German to his feet. "This guy will do."

"You don't want him," Dubois snarled. "That one won't talk. He only knows how to kill. _Tuer! Tuer!_ This is all he knows!"

Saunders shrugged, sizing the prisoner up. Tall, just as he'd thought. Now that the German's eyes were open his expression was as haughty as any SS officer's, but there was something else in his face—relief, maybe, that death was delayed. If the man wanted to live that badly, the boys back at headquarters would have something to work with. "He'll talk," Saunders said, satisfied. "Kirby, Caje!" He gestured to his men. "Take him."

There were angry mutterings in the group and a middle-aged man stepped forward, remonstrating with the sergeant. Caje paled as he listened to the man's impassioned speech. Before he could translate, Dubois whirled on Saunders. "This man here, Jean-Claude, had a daughter. Seventeen years' old! That butcher," he gestured to the German, who seemed to have regained his equilibrium and was now regarding them with undisguised contempt, "took her for questioning. Her father found her body near these woods, not two days ago. Her clothes were torn away, sergeant, and her belly ripped open. And you tell me he has no right to kill this man?" Spittle flew from Dubois' mouth in his fury. "What would you do if the monster who tortured and murdered your daughter was standing right in front of you?"

"Sarge…" Kirby began doubtfully.

"Can it." Saunders shifted the Thompson minutely. "I'd want to kill him, too," he admitted, "but my lieutenant's orders come before your revenge." He gestured to a German pack and gun belt lying at the edge of the glen. "Those his?"

"_Non_," Dubois said shortly, visibly trying to get the better of his anger.

"_Ja_, they are mine." The SS officer's voice was low, but it cut through the air like a knife. Saunders wondered how much English the man spoke and if he understood French, as well. He glanced quickly between them, the stocky Frenchman bristling with indignation and the tall German who regarded him with an expression filled with loathing.

"Doc, get those things. Harris," he nodded to the private who stood nervously at Caje's side, trying not to make eye contact with their prisoner, "you take point."

As he turned away, he heard the angry voices still arguing behind them. Then Dubois called out above the others, "_Éco__utez-moi_, sergeant! As long as that man is with you, you are in danger!"

"Do you think that's a warning or a threat?" Kirby muttered.

Saunders ignored him, trudging forward through the trees as cold pellets struck his helmet. They'd wasted too much time and the frozen rain had started again, a final insult. He hunched his shoulders, feeling a fevered tremor run down his spine. Like he needed to get sick now, still miles from their lines with night coming on and a psychopath in tow. He shook his head. _This patrol's getting worse all the time._


	2. Cold Hate

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 2: Cold Hate**_

The patrol slogged through the forest while evening shrank the world around them to tall shadows. At dusk the icy rain changed to snow as the temperature dropped with the sun. Still the little group pressed on, stumbling over roots and stones that seemed to spring up out of the darkness under their feet.

The prisoner had a difficult time keeping pace. Caje and Kirby did their best to drag him along at a brisk clip, but his pinioned arms made it impossible to maintain his balance over the jumbled terrain. Kirby muttered as they dropped further behind. He could barely make out Doc's outline in the trees ahead and couldn't see Harris any more at all. Saunders moved restlessly up and down the line between the point and the stragglers, his frustration mounting. When the German fell for the fourth time, he jerked the man to his knees with fury-fueled strength. In spite of their speed and the many tumbles, the prisoner was still unwinded. Saunders scowled, fighting to slow his own panting breaths. Even wounded and beaten by the Frenchmen, the bastard had a lot more left in him than he was letting on.

He shook his prisoner hard. "Want to live, kraut?" He didn't wait for the answer he knew he wouldn't get anyway. "Then get on your feet and stay on them."

"Sarge," Kirby ventured, "there's no way he can move very fast trussed up like this, even if he wanted to."

The SS man looked up at Saunders with a mocking expression, as if to say, "Well, what do you expect?" The sergeant's fist clenched as he weighed the two evils: the trouble the prisoner might cause if given the opportunity against growing concern for their hampered progress. He wished he could check in with Lieutenant Hanley, but he was reluctant to stop and set up the radio until they found shelter. The snow continued to fall around them, silent and inexorable. Flowing beneath Saunders' deliberations was a gnawing guilt: he'd misjudged the timing and the weather, hadn't analyzed the data as well as he should have, and now they were in trouble. It didn't matter if it was the headache or the fever building in his exhausted body that clouded his mind. They trusted him—Doc, Caje, Kirby, Harris—and he was letting them down. _Careless_.

"Sarge?"

"OK." Saunders rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. "OK, cut all that junk off and tie his hands in front of him. Tight. And keep him covered, both of you."

Caje dragged the German to his feet, holding him at bayonet point while Kirby untied him. The man rubbed his arms briskly when the ropes were finally unwound, ignoring the Americans' rough handling. Saunders found himself watching the SS officer's long, strong fingers with horrible fascination. He thought of them drawing a knife across the young woman's stomach, blood splashing onto a cold cellar floor, and quickly looked away, disgusted.

They bound the prisoner's hands and set off again, the German moving with longer, more confident strides. Satisfied that Caje and Kirby would be vigilant, Saunders joined Harris at the point. "Everything OK up here?"

The private glanced at him guiltily. "Sarge, I don't know if I'm still heading the right way. It all looks the same in the dark." His breath puffed in the frigid air.

"You're doing all right. Remember those rocks?" Saunders pointed to dark shapes looming close beside them. "Kirby took a smoke there this afternoon, right?"

"Yeah." Harris nodded, as if reassuring himself. "Yeah. I remember."

"Sarge!" Saunders spun at Kirby's cry. The prisoner had tripped Caje, taking advantage of the opening to pull free from Kirby's grip. Before the private could catch him, he bounded away into the trees.

Saunders released a stream of bullets and the German dove for the ground. They could barely see him as he wriggled a few paces on his belly before rolling to his feet and dashing off again. He was moving faster than he ever had as their prisoner, weaving surefootedly through the underbrush.

Caje and Kirby were off in an instant, Saunders close behind. He cursed inwardly as he increased his speed. _Too slow_. The German was unencumbered while they were loaded down with gear. Saunders felt like there were lead weights attached to his legs. The air he gulped into his lungs was cold enough to burn. _Too slow_. He forced his legs to pump harder, hearing Harris' and Doc's ragged breathing as they struggled to keep up. Ahead, shots and shouts bounced off trees and rocks, muffled by the heavy snowfall. Saunders wouldn't have been able to say what direction they came from if he didn't know already. Winded, he almost ran into Kirby when he crashed into a small clearing.

The private caught him, slowing his momentum as Saunders took in the scene. A cabin stood nestled between the trees, its rough roof coated with snow. It blended so well into the forest they could have passed by it in the darkness without realizing it was there. The German lay on the ground in front of the door, Caje's foot planted in the small of his back. He made no effort to rise but simply lay catching his breath, his face in the snow.

"You shoot him?"

Kirby shook his head. "Caje caught up with him and pulled him down."

Saunders' eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I'll bet. Convenient." He stalked over to the German, his boots crunching in the snow. "Get him up."

Caje and Kirby grabbed the man under each arm, prepared to haul him to his feet. "On his knees," Saunders growled. The SS man looked up at him steadily, his cold eyes shining in the darkness, and Saunders knew it was only a matter of time before what little control he still had shattered. _Would they call it murder? Would anyone ask questions?_ Not after Malmedy. He had free rein and he knew it.

"You and I," he muttered, looking the SS officer straight in the eye, "are going to have a little talk."

"Sarge," Doc panted, coming to his side. "Are we staying here tonight?"

"I don't think there's any choice," Saunders said. "We can't go on in this storm." He scanned their tired faces. "Harris, keep watch out here and stay close."

"Sergeant…" the German began, and Saunders smiled to hear the first notes of anxiety in his voice.

"Shut up. We'll talk inside."

X X X

"What do you 'spose this place is?" Kirby asked.

"It's a hunter's cabin," Caje said, checking the corners of the room and satisfying himself that no one had been there for a few days at least. "They build them for just this kind of situation—a place you can go if you're deep in the woods and want to rest." He struck a match and lit a taper that stood on a crude wooden table in the center of the room. Shadows leaped on the walls, writhing in the glow.

"I'm sure glad it's here," Doc said, dropping his pack gratefully. He dug out a box of rations and slumped in the corner, his back against the wall. "Now if we could just light a fire..." he looked longingly at the cold hearth.

"No." Saunders kept his gaze on the German, not sparing Doc a glance. "He knew this place was here, so that means we could have company at any time. We'll take our chances being cold." He gestured to the prisoner. "Tie his feet, Kirby, and make sure his hands are still tight." He watched impassively as the private carried out his orders, pushing the SS officer to the floor and securing his legs.

The German remained quiet through the procedure but a muscle in his jaw leaped when Kirby cinched his wrists, the ropes digging into his flesh. "Hurts, doesn't it?" Saunders said. "Now you know how it feels, except you guys make it even tighter." He cocked his head, studying his prisoner's face. "Scared, kraut?"

"Naturally," the German replied. For once there was no insolence in his eyes. "I'm made of flesh, just as you are. I feel cold, pain, hunger, thirst." He looked at Saunders meaningfully. "May I have a drink of water, sergeant?"

"What do you think this is, a café? Think you can just give orders and somebody will jump?" Saunders snarled. All the tensions of the day—the unremitting cold, the chase through the darkness, the illness he could no longer deny was draining his strength—poured in on him at that moment, coupled with visions he couldn't stop. A girl lying dead in the woods. Corpses in a field, covered in a dusting of snow. Steiner offering his canteen to Gates—_Drink, if you're thirsty. Come, take it._—and Gates scrabbling at his feet.

Saunders grabbed the prisoner by the collar and punched him hard enough to snap his head into the wall. He hit him again, feeling a warm satisfaction when he split the German's lip, blood smearing his knuckles. It wasn't enough for the girl, couldn't possibly pay the debt he owed her father, but it was something. A small victory to hit a SS officer the way Steiner had hit his men. Only then he'd been helpless, couldn't protect them from the torturer. He drew his arm back again.

"Sarge," Doc said quietly, "all he did was ask for a drink of water."

Saunders stopped, panting. The German's chin was slumped against his chest, his eyes closed.

"Can I give him one?" Doc was just doing his job but Saunders hated him at that moment.

"No," he croaked, releasing the prisoner and pushing him away. "No water. No food. He's played us for chumps once and almost got away. He's not tricking us again." He felt suddenly too weary to move, let alone explain himself to his men. Crossing the room, he sank into the corner, his hate-filled gaze fixed on the SS officer. _I've got your number, monster._


	3. A Bitter Night

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 3: A Bitter Night**_

The Americans changed into dry clothes, moving stiffly as their muscles warmed. The cabin consisted of only one close, windowless room. Snow was still falling, even if they couldn't see it layering a silver crust on the trees outside. The muffled silence of the winter world magnified the crunching of Harris' boots as he stamped his feet up and down to warm them, pacing ceaselessly on the other side of the door.

While the others ate, Saunders set up the radio and reported in. Lieutenant Hanley wasn't encouraging. The storm was expected to last until midday, making movement almost impossible. As eager as he was for the patrol to return, he advised them to sit tight until the weather cleared.

Saunders turned away from the radio with a growl of frustration. He'd hoped to set out at dawn and get rid of the troublesome prisoner as soon as possible. Even without Dubois' report of his cruelty, every sense he'd honed through bitter experience screamed at him that the man was dangerous. The sooner he was safely in someone else's custody, the better.

Saunders set his rations aside, his throat too sore to eat. His eyes strayed to the German's pack and gun belt lying on the table. Something wasn't right. He tried to think clearly, wishing exhaustion wasn't playing havoc with his reasoning. It was important… something about the pack and the gun… and suddenly he remembered. "Why did Dubois say these weren't yours?"

The SS officer looked up, smiling in his mocking way. "Perhaps you should have asked him."

"Hey, you, _cochon_!" Caje leaned forward menacingly. "Answer our sergeant with respect."

"Let's take a look and see what we've got," Saunders said, his eyes on the German's face. The man's expression didn't change as he drew a revolver out of its holster. Saunders frowned as he inspected it. "This isn't a Luger or Walther." He turned it in his hands. The gun was large caliber, impeccably polished, massive and gleaming.

"It's a Reichsrevolver," the German said quietly. "They made them at the beginning of the century. Like your Colt Peacemaker."

Saunders shot him a quick, suspicious glance. It was the first time the prisoner had strung so many words together since the American had punched him. The German's conversational tone bothered him more than sarcasm. He wondered why an officer would opt for such an old-fashioned sidearm when he could have chosen any number of more modern weapons.

Saunders brought the gun close to his eyes, straining to make out the designs on it in the dim candlelight. Fraktur script covered the frame in a thin, lace-like pattern, the words interlocking in an intricate tracery. "What's this?"

"Good wishes, sergeant," the German said, tilting his head back against the wall. His eyes were glittering slits. "Hopes that the shooter will hit his adversary and send him to Hell."

Saunders grunted, releasing the cylinder. "It's empty. Been sending a lot of men to Hell, kraut?" When the German didn't answer, he put the revolver back in its holster and turned to the prisoner's pack. He stiffened when he opened it, his face settling in hard lines. Kirby and Caje leaned over his shoulder, curious to see what was inside.

Nestled on a clean shirt was a long, curved knife— the kind one could use to disembowel a victim.

Caje moved before Saunders could, disgust twisting his features into a hideous grimace. He grabbed the SS officer by the lapels, inarticulate sounds breaking from his throat as he shook the man hard.

"That's enough!" Saunders inserted himself between the enraged private and the prisoner.

"Sarge," Caje panted, "if we take him back they'll let him live. He'll talk, make a deal, and they'll let him live. He'll sit out the war eating three hot meals a day, and afterwards he'll be free to cut up girls again." Caje looked at Saunders, the coldness in his eyes at odds with his pleading tone. "We can't let that happen. We know what this monster is, but he'll fool them, he'll fool them all… and they'll let him loose one day. Sarge, please!"

"Now look," Saunders snapped, "we both know he's a sick bastard. I wouldn't cry any tears if you killed him, but we've got to control ourselves." _I have to control myself._ Saunders ran his hand through his hair, wishing something—anything—would make his headache go away. "If we shoot him now, we might as well have left him with Dubois and saved all the trouble." He gripped Caje's arm hard, forcing the private to meet his eyes. "Right?"

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Saunders looked from Caje's mutinous face to the German, who was regarding them with polite interest, as if they were merely debating a moral point and not the continuance of his existence. _Insane. _Saunders wondered how long his sense of duty could hold his hatred in check. They would all back him if he killed the prisoner. Hell, they'd cheer him on—Caje, Kirby, Harris, Doc. _No, not Doc. _The medic would never condone killing the German in cold blood, regardless of the provocation.

"Caje," Saunders said, his throat tight, "go relieve Harris."

"Sarge…"

"Go on." Saunders' voice was expressionless and Caje knew the debate was closed. "That's an order."

Caje nodded curtly. With one last, venomous glance at the SS officer, he stepped out into the night, grateful for the blast of icy air that cooled his burning face.

Saunders leaned close to the German. "I won't save you again, kraut."

"Sarge!" Caje flung the door open. "Harris is gone!"

"Kirby, keep an eye on the prisoner." Saunders followed Caje outside, sweat starting on his scalp even as the driving snow stung his eyes.

"Maybe he went over to the trees to take a leak?" Caje ventured. The private was a shadow, his features indistinguishable in the darkness.

Saunders shook his head, straining like an animal trying to catch a scent on the wind. He could feel a menace he couldn't see, knew with a sixth sense that it was there just beyond his reach. His dropped to a crouch as he scanned the deep woods, the Thompson held at the ready. It was impossible to make out anything through the storm. "No," he whispered, "they got Harris and they're still there. Probably heard us talking." He cursed himself for not being more careful, although it was amazing to think the Germans would be on patrol on a night like this. _Maybe the snow caught a group of them by surprise, too, and they'd like a nice, dry place to spend the night. _Saunders' jaw tightened. "Cover me. I'm going to take a look."

He jogged forward a few steps, bent over, and suddenly he was on his face, snow clogging his nose. Saunders heard Caje's low curses as he dragged him to his feet and hustled him back to the cabin.

"Did you find Harris?" Caje tried to ignore how scared Kirby looked as they flung themselves through the door and bolted it behind them.

"No." Caje deposited Saunders in a chair and motioned to Doc, who rushed forward, sensing the sergeant's distress. "He fell down," Caje explained quietly. "When I pulled him up, he was stumbling all over the place. I had a hard time getting him back."

"Maybe he tripped?"

"Nah." Caje's dark eyes were troubled. "Something's wrong with him."

"How ya feeling now, Sarge?" Doc asked with forced cheer.

"Fine," Saunders ground out, but the medic could hear the hopelessness in his voice.

Doc sucked in a quick breath when he laid his hand on Saunders' forehead. "You're burning up."

"Keep it down." Saunders cast a meaningful glance at the SS officer. The man's expression was contemplative, as if he understood everything that was happening, from Harris' disappearance to the sergeant's illness, and wasn't surprised by any of it. "Just give me a couple of aspirin, will ya?"

Doc shook the pills into his hand. "If you've got the flu—or something worse—this isn't gonna do it," he said softly.

"It has to." Saunders tossed the medicine back, chasing it down with cold, soothing water. The German watched him drink, his own throat working.

"Hey, Sarge," Kirby said, "let me and Caje go back out and look for Harris, OK?"

"No."

"But, Sarge, if they've got him…?"

"I said no." Saunders's tone was adamant. "We don't know how many krauts are out there. They could rush us at any time and this cabin is the only protection we've got." He looked at each of them in turn. "We're staying put."

"Wise decision, sergeant," the prisoner said quietly. "By all means, stay inside and keep the door bolted. Your man is assuredly beyond help."

"Shut up," Saunders said savagely. "Doc, keep an eye on him and Kirby, take the first watch. Stay by the door and let me know if you hear anything." He leaned forward onto the table, resting his forehead on his crossed arms, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them next, gray light was filtering under the door where Caje sat alert and listening. Saunders dragged his tongue across cracked lips. "I didn't tell Kirby he was relieved." He stretched gingerly, aching muscles protesting.

"I offered to take his place sometime after midnight," Caje said softly. "We didn't want to wake you."

"They didn't attack." Saunders frowned, still hardly believing he'd slept for hours. "Why?"

Caje shrugged. "Maybe they think there are more of us than there are."

"Did you hear anything?"

The private hesitated. "I don't know. I thought I heard something in the middle of the night. I woke Kirby up and he listened, too."

"Why the hell didn't you get me?"

"I didn't think it was the krauts," Caje replied. "It was more like animals. You know, sniffing around, looking for food. That's what Kirby thought, too."

Saunders pushed himself to his feet and crossed unsteadily to the door. With Caje covering him, he pulled the bolt and opened it slowly, standing to the side in case he was greeted with a hail of bullets. He shivered against the influx of icy wind. From deep within the room Kirby moaned a sleepy protest.

The snow was still falling fast, covering any tracks Harris or the Germans might have left behind. Saunders scanned the quiet forest while Caje came up behind him and stood at his shoulder. "Think they're still out there?"

"No." Saunders couldn't say how he knew the krauts were gone, but he felt a presence had been removed, that eyes were no longer watching him. "No, I think they've pulled out. Maybe not far. They might hit us when we try to leave."

"When are we gonna go, Sarge?"

"As soon as this lets up."

X X X

In the end it was midday, just as Hanley had predicted, before the snow finally slacked off. The patrol would have to slog through thigh-deep drifts, but it didn't matter. They were eager to put the miserable hunting cabin behind them. As long as the lines hadn't moved, they could expect to be back before dark.

"Get your things," Saunders ordered, shrugging into his pack. It felt like it weighed twice as much as it had the day before.

"Sergeant?" The SS officer looked up at him wearily. His lean face seemed older; his insolent eyes were dull.

_Good, maybe he won't make a break for it this time._ Saunders raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"A man can only live so long without water. You want me to run through the snow, driven by you young men. You'll kill me if I can't keep up, isn't this true?"

Saunders sighed heavily. He didn't know which infuriated him most, the man's smug superiority or his disgusting plays for sympathy. "Doc, give him some water." Even as he turned away, the thought came to him: _careless_.

"Doc!" Saunders spun, gun raised, just as the medic fell back, his hands clawing the air.

The German was on his feet, severed ropes falling away from his wrists and ankles. He held a thin, sharp blade to Doc's throat. Saunders didn't have time to wonder where it had come from.

"Drop it!" Saunders ordered. "You won't get out of here alive."

"I have no intention of leaving, sergeant." The German smiled thinly and Saunders cursed himself for having been tricked despite all his precautions.

"What is it you want?" He shifted slightly to the side, hoping to get an angle where he could shoot without hitting Doc. The German tightened his grip and the medic flinched. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck. "Taking his life won't do you any good."

The SS officer's cold eyes locked with Saunders'. "I don't want his life. Only yours."


	4. Sacrifice

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 4: Sacrifice**_

"Your life, sergeant," the German said, as the Americans stared at him in disbelief, "is all I require. The rest can live, even," he flicked his knife again against Doc's throat, "your trusting medic."

"What kind of game are you playing?" Saunders rasped.

"No game." The SS officer studied the sergeant's face. "You're the kind of man that requires proof, I see. Very well, you'll have it." He gestured to Kirby. "You—put down your gun and your gear. I will keep them. You're free to go."

"Sarge?" Kirby looked at Saunders uncertainly.

"Go on." The German flicked his knife against Doc's throat again and another thin, red line appeared. The medic's teeth were clenched, his eyes closed, but Kirby could see him trembling.

"Sarge, what do I do?"

"Do what he says," Saunders said. "Try to make it back and report."

"But what about…?"

"Go!" Saunders glared at the German, not sparing Kirby a glance.

"OK, but I'll be back. I'll be back with help, you hear?" Kirby fumbled with the bolt, leaving the door standing open as he trudged away through the snow, looking back over his shoulder. A little distance into the woods, he stopped and waited.

Satisfied Kirby was gone, the German smiled. "You see? I kept my word. One of your men is safe." His gaze shifted to Caje. "Now it's within your power to save the next."

"No," Caje ground out. "There's no way I'm leaving you with this monster."

"Put your gun on the floor and kick it over to me," the SS officer said. "Gently, private."

"No!"

Doc caught his breath as the knife slashed his flesh again, coming perilously close to his jugular.

"Caje," Saunders said softly, "you and I could kill him, but not without losing Doc."

"You can't …"

"It's my responsibility," Saunders said. "I took him prisoner. I let him get Doc." His gaze flicked to Caje's face and the private saw the resolve in his eyes. There was no way he was going to talk Sarge into saving himself if it meant the medic would die.

Slowly, Caje put his gun on the floor and kicked it over to the German. It skittered across the wooden boards, coming to rest against Doc's foot.

"Very well," the German said softly to his prisoner, "we'll pick this up together." Using the pressure of the knife against Doc's throat, he forced the man down with him until he could reach the gun with his free hand. Scooping it up, he pointed it at Caje while still holding the knife tightly against Doc's skin. "It's time for you to leave, private."

"Sarge…"

"Go on. Get outta here!" Saunders gestured toward the open door.

Caje stood poised in tormented indecision. Finally he spat, "I'll kill you, kraut! Wherever you go won't be far enough. I'll hunt you down, and when I find you I'll kill you with my own hands."

The German inclined his head, silently accepting the challenge.

"Go on," Saunders said gently. "Tell the lieutenant there are enemy patrols in the woods. Let him know what happened to Harris."

Caje's eyes filled with tears of fury. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then he turned away. His heavy footsteps made deep tracks in the snow as he joined Kirby among the trees.

"Now it's time for you to drop your gun, sergeant," the German said.

Saunders slowly put the Thompson down, pushing it away when the SS officer made an impatient motion with the knife.

"Sarge, no!" Doc was almost sobbing. "It's not your fault. I was the one who wanted to give him water. You were right about him."

"Knock it off," Saunders said. "I'm ordering you to leave with the others."

"Your medical kit and pack can stay here," the German said. He gestured towards Saunders with Caje's gun. "I have a job for you before you go. Take the rope that bound me and tie your sergeant's hands and feet with it."

"Go to hell!"

"Would you rather I cut your throat?"

"Yeah," Doc said, his voice harsh with pain, "yeah, I would, you stinking…"

"Doc," Saunders said. His low, weary tone stopped the medic's tirade. "Just do it."

"You know what Dubois said about him!"

"Yeah, and he can kill both of us or just one." Saunders' tone brooked no defiance. "I've given you an order. Do what he said and then get out of here!"

Hands shaking, Doc bound Saunders' wrists while the German watched closely, making sure he secured the knots firmly. When the sergeant's legs were tied as well, the SS officer pulled the medic to his feet and shoved him towards the open door. "Your friends are waiting for you," he said. "Time to join them."

"I'll be back!" Doc's face was pale, his voice shaking. "Sarge, we'll come back for you."

"No!" Saunders hissed between clenched teeth. "Don't ever come back here. Don't bring the lieutenant, you hear? I don't want him to see… what will be left for him to see," he ended softly. "You get out of here and keep going, understand?"

"Sarge." Doc choked on the word. Saunders' face was frighteningly pale and the medic suddenly thought of all the times he'd tended the man when he was wounded, believing each time surely _this _was the last, the injury that would send Saunders home for the rest of the war. And each time, the sergeant pulled through, proving himself indestructible once more. It seemed impossible Saunders would meet his end this way, tortured to death by a madman deep in the forest, far from the fighting.

"Sarge," he said again, and Saunders looked at him as if he could read all his thoughts.

"Go on, get outta here." The sergeant's voice was gently coaxing, much steadier than his own.

Filled with self-loathing Doc turned away, feeling tears fall even though he hated for the German to see them. Blinking hard, he stumbled out into the snow, Kirby and Caje pulling him along as the three of them made their slow, mournful way towards the American lines.

X X X

The German stood at the open door, Caje's M-1 held up warningly, until they were out of sight. Then he shook his head, closed the door, and bolted it. While Saunders watched, stony-faced and silent, he perched on the table, arm resting on the Americans' radio, and drained his canteen in a single swallow. When he finished, he turned to Saunders.

"Water?" he held the sergeant's canteen out towards his prisoner.

_So this is how it starts_, Saunders thought. He remembered Steiner again, offering water to Gates if he would crawl to his feet. _Why is it always water?_ Then and there, he determined that no matter what happened, he would never drink from his enemy's hand.

There was no chance he'd live. Saunders was a realist, too well-versed in the ways of the SS to harbor false hopes. There was only the question of how he would die. It would be bad, he knew, and he felt a sharp flush of relief that his men wouldn't be there to see it. It would be so much worse if they witnessed his degradation. Unknowingly, the monster had spared him something he feared more than any pain.

The German waited for a long moment, canteen held at arms' length, then shrugged and placed it back on the table. He rummaged in Kirby's pack, fished out two boxes of rations, and proceeded to eat them while Saunders watched impassively. Finally finished with his lunch, he sauntered over to where Saunders sat on the floor.

"You're a brave man, sergeant," he said. There was no trace of mockery in his voice. "Even weakened by your illness, your spirit is strong. Good! That is best." He slapped his hand against his thigh for emphasis. "You hide your fear well, but I can see it troubles you. Let it go for now. I will tell you when it's time to be afraid."

Saunders met his gaze steadily, refusing to be shaken. _Just words_. There would be more taunting before it was over, but while he could still speak, still trust himself to make articulate sounds, Saunders wouldn't let the German have everything his own way. "I'm not afraid of you, kraut."

His captor smiled. "You know, I believe you're telling the truth. Man to man, you're not intimidated. It's the uniform that frightens you, isn't it." His smile broadened at Saunders' studiously bored expression. "Look here, sergeant!" He gestured to the hole in the side of his jacket, where blood darkened the dirty wool. "I took quite a wound, didn't I? You may wonder how I am managing so well after being held by Dubois and his friends, then spending the night in your tender care." He unbuttoned the jacket and slid it off, pulling his shirt aside.

Beneath it, the German's skin was smooth and undamaged. There was no trace of what should have been a serious bullet wound.

Despite his intention not to give his captor any satisfaction, Saunders couldn't help the question that sprang into his eyes.

The German squatted beside him, just out of reach. "You observe, but you still don't understand. This isn't my uniform," he said quietly. "I took it from a dead man because I needed it to serve my purpose. I'm not a member of the _Schutzstaffel_, nor have I ever been."


	5. Devil's Own

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 5: Devil's Own**_

Saunders' eyes narrowed. The man certainly looked like a textbook example of a SS officer. He'd already proven himself adept at trickery, but Saunders wondered why he'd bother lying to a victim who was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, completely in his power. "Now you're going to tell me you're not a kraut, I guess?"

His captor's lip twitched in a small smile. "Of course I'm German. I'm just not very interested in Herr Hitler's war. My own is difficult enough."

"Your war?" Saunders let a hefty dose of skepticism slip into his voice. The kraut wasn't the only one who could mock.

"I've been fighting for a quarter of a century," the German said, ignoring his tone, "and the final battle will be joined tonight. Before you involved yourself, I wasn't sure how it would end." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm not as young as I used to be and I've become too careless. My enemy is strong and cunning. I'm no longer worried, though—you'll ensure my victory."

"If you think I'm going to help you…"

"You will," his captor said. "You have no choice." He sat down on the floor, legs crossed, the M-1 resting across his lap. "Last night," he gave a mirthless smile and shook his head, "last night, I didn't regret contemplating your death. I thought you were just another savage. This war breeds so many." He sighed. "Then I realized you were only ill and angry."

"I still am."

This time the German laughed out loud. "As honest as you are brave!" He sobered, the lines of his face deepening. "A man like you should know why he's dying. Do you want me to tell you?"

The man's cold eyes held his, pitiless but not unkind, and Saunders found himself adrift. He'd steeled himself against pain, shored up his defenses to bear humiliation, but he hadn't prepared himself for delusional camaraderie. The kraut was insane and a murderer, that much was certain, but Saunders felt the first stirrings of hope. _He likes to talk, wants to justify his crimes._ If he could keep the man occupied, wait for an opening….

"Sure, OK," Saunders said, sounding as indifferent as possible, "tell me why I gotta die."

"It's not that I particularly dislike Americans, you understand," the German said. "My grandmother was American. Her parents came to your country from Ulm. When she was eighteen, her father arranged for her to return to Germany and marry my grandfather, the son of an old friend. That, if you're wondering, is why I speak your language so well."

"When war came in 1914, I hurried to enlist. What did I know? I look at you sitting there, young and ignorant, killing who you're told to kill, and I think of how I was in those days." His voice hardened. "I understood nothing about darkness and sacrifice. My fears were ordinary, like yours."

He cleared his throat, smiling apologetically. "I don't mean to insult you, sergeant. A man only knows what he's experienced. One can expect no more." Rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion, he picked up his canteen and took it to the door, still covering Saunders with Caje's rifle. Cautiously drawing it open, he filled the canteen with snow, his eyes never leaving his captive. There was nothing clumsy about his movements: each was precise, a perfect economy of motion. Saunders wondered about the man's assertion that he was getting old and careless. He wished he could see some sign it was true.

The sun was westering. Pulling himself up straighter in his bonds, Saunders strained to glimpse through the open door. Shadows were lengthening outside on the snow. "The days are short at this time of year," the German said, as if he could read his thoughts. "It's a good season for mischief, but perhaps your men will make it back safely before dark."

He closed the door and bolted it again, then returned to his seat on the floor near his captive. "We'll need water tonight," he said, shrugging into his jacket and slipping the canteen into his pocket. "The snow takes time to thaw."

Saunders tried to ignore his own thirst as his gaze followed the German's movements. He could last longer without water—he'd done it many times before—but the fever raging through his body sapped his reserves. He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as the German started talking again. _Fine. Yak as long as you want._

"During the war, there was a nurse I loved. We met in this part of France, near these woods. We used to arrange to see each other in the forest. It was behind our lines; it was quiet and safe."

"One evening, I was later than usual arriving for our rendezvous. As I passed into the trees, I heard a strange sound like an animal scuffling in the undergrowth. What would you have thought, sergeant?"

"I'd think it might be an enemy," Saunders said without opening his eyes, "and I'd take cover."

"Exactly," the German said. "From my hiding place, I saw a young Frenchman come out of the trees, pulling his clothes on. His shirt was open, his chest naked. His body was spotless, but his face was smeared with blood."

Saunders' eyes flew open in shock.

"It was his eyes that kept me from confronting him," the German continued. "They were yellow: the eyes of a demon. Maybe it was God, or the Devil, that concealed me that day—I don't know. When he was gone, I hurried to the meeting place and found my lover dead. That was when I learned there are men who are beasts and beasts who are men."

He fell silent while Saunders stared at him, incredulous. Maybe this was the first time his captor killed a woman and he needed to make an excuse, to come up with a crazy story to tell himself so he wouldn't have to face the truth.

Once again, the German seemed to read Saunders' thoughts. "You think I'm insane," he said softly. "For a time, I think I might have been. When the war ended I didn't go home. I came back here, hiding near the woods. When I learned to understand French, I haunted the edges of villages and began overhearing whispers about disappearances near the forest, dark stories these country people don't tell outsiders."

The German drew a deep breath and said matter-of-factly, "The first time I hunted one of these beasts I was lucky to escape with my life. They have human intelligence, and speed well beyond yours or mine. And if they so much as rake you with tooth or claw, you are destined to become like them."

"I was faced with a dilemma, being so outmatched: Give up my little war or find a weapon that would even the odds. I chose the latter." He glanced at his gun belt, lying on the table where Saunders had placed it the night before. "I heard about weapons made specifically to destroy the beasts and resolved to obtain one. I had to travel far into the Austrian wilds to find the old man who sold me my Reichsrevolver, but it has never failed me. Even the best hunter misses his mark on occasion, though, and I could afford no mistakes."

His serious gaze held Saunders transfixed. "There is a folk story among my people about a marksman who made a contract with the Devil in exchange for six bullets that would always hit their target. I thought, 'If such a thing can be, surely it's worth a man's soul. Mine is already tainted by war.' So I made the bullets and offered myself in recompense."

"It's no small thing to sacrifice your soul, sergeant, even one as dubious as mine. Look how generous I am!" He gave a humorless laugh, eyes twinkling. "Do you feel sorry for yourself? I'm only asking you for your blood, your flesh, but when I die I'll be damned eternally."

Saunders kept his breathing even, trying not to let any emotion show in his face. The sand was shifting beneath his feet, the balance of civility in the room becoming precarious. He'd dealt with madmen before, soldiers horribly damaged by what they'd seen and done, but this went beyond anything he'd ever encountered. _One wrong move, one word that could make him lose his grip on sanity…_

"Five bullets are now spent," his captor said softly, "and five beasts have been destroyed. I only have one bullet left and it will be used tonight. No, not against you," he said, seeing the question in Saunders' eyes. "I wouldn't waste a bullet on you." He smiled. "I doubt my countrymen share that feeling. I imagine you've done them a lot of harm."

"It's war," Saunders said carefully. "I do my job. I don't enjoy killing."

"Neither do I." At the American's doubtful expression he said, "Oh, yes—the girl. Jean-Claude's daughter. That was a mistake. I told you I've grown too careless." He ran his finger lightly over the insignia on his jacket. "I think now maybe it was wrong to take this uniform. It seemed like an excellent idea at the time. I knew one of the men in this village was the beast, but I didn't know which. With this uniform I could take anyone I wanted for questioning and it would arouse no suspicion, or so I thought."

"The girl was terrified, just as everyone picked up by the _Schutzstaffel_ is, but I didn't hurt her, sergeant." His cold gaze was steady. "If it matters to you, I will swear it. I asked her about the men's movements, who went out late at night and didn't return until dawn, that sort of thing. That applies to most of the maquis, though." He gave a humorless laugh. "A countryside at war is the perfect hunting ground for a monster, isn't it? A child disappears coming home at twilight or a young man leaves his village for the next to find food and never returns. Surely _les boches_ are responsible! No one asks further questions, even if they wonder."

"It took many hours of questioning, but finally I was able to piece together my answer. I shouldn't have released her at dusk, but I didn't want to hold her overnight." The German shook his head. "I was afraid of what my countrymen might do. I am too familiar with the ways of monsters! She didn't have far to go and I thought she would make it home, but the beast found her." His voice hardened. "I told you they have human intelligence. He knew she'd given him away and he took his revenge and his pleasure in one act."

"You seem to be quick-witted," the German said, looking at Saunders slyly. "Can you put a name to the creature?"

"Dubois." Saunders' mouth was dry. He still believed his captor was delusional, but he had to admit the pieces fell into place. Dubois had wanted the German dead even though he knew the Americans needed prisoners. He'd lied about the pack and gun, as if he wanted to make sure the German would never have access to them again. He thought of the Frenchman's angry, parting words: _As long as that man is with you, you are in danger. _He'd taken it as the warning of a concerned ally, but it hadn't been that at all. "He killed Harris," Saunders said flatly. "There weren't any krauts in the woods last night, were there?"

"No."

"You knew." Rage burned in Saunders' face, hotter than fever. His determination to keep his captor calm was thrown to the winds. He'd been tricked again, used, and his men used just as badly. He pulled against the rope on his wrists, twisting as he tried to break free. "You son of a bitch! You knew he'd be killed!"

"I tried to warn you," the German snapped, "but you weren't willing to listen. Blame yourself, sergeant—your anger and suspicions—not me!"

Even caught in the grip of his fury, Saunders realized he'd crossed a line. If the German were the sadist Dubois claimed, he'd be facing violent repercussions for his outburst. Instead, he and his captor were arguing like ordinary, exhausted men. The realization brought Saunders up short and he dropped his head against the wall again, panting.

"Save your strength," the German said. "You'll need it when the hunt begins."

X X X

Saunders slept fitfully through the afternoon and evening, alternately shivering and burning. His dreams were full of shouts and death: Harris, wide-eyed, trying to find the trail; Kirby, cut down by a machine gun as he struggled through the snow; Caje, taking a shot meant for him fired from a Reichsrevolver covered in magic inscriptions; and a girl—a girl walking home in the growing dark, looking fearfully over her shoulder. He tried to call to her, to warn her, but he couldn't speak a language she'd understand.

Saunders woke with a cry. The cabin was dark except for a lone candle on the table. In its light, he saw the German strapping on his gun belt and loading a single bullet into his revolver. His captor frowned at his outburst.

"Your illness is becoming worse."

Saunders glared at him through half-closed eyes. He couldn't control the tremors running through his body, but he tried to muster what strength he had. If he was going to make a move, it had to be soon. The gun was important to the kraut. Maybe if he could get it….

"Hey!" His voice was rough, like sandpaper. "Hey, how about some water?"

Wordlessly, the German crossed the cabin to his side, holding out the canteen.

When his captor knelt beside him, Saunders swung his bound arms like a club, hitting him squarely on the side of his head. _That one's for Doc._ The German stumbled and Saunders took advantage of the opening to scramble for the gun. His hand closed on the holster, but his opponent recovered and dealt him a brutal uppercut with enough force to snap his head back. Another blow drove Saunders to the edge of unconsciousness. He braced himself for more even as he tasted blood in his mouth, but instead the German cut the ropes on his ankles and hauled him to his feet. Reeling, Saunders struggled to find his footing.

"Stop it," his captor panted. "This is useless." With one swift motion, he grabbed Saunders' jacket and pulled it off his shoulders. It pooled around his elbows, immobilizing his arms even further. With one hand he held the sergeant in place, while with the other he drew his long, curved knife. "I promised I would give you warning," he said. "Prepare yourself."

There was no time, even if Saunders had possessed the concentration to follow his captor's advice. The knife slashed down, leaving a deep cut from his shoulder to his elbow. A strangled cry broke from the sergeant's lips even as the knife fell again, leaving an identical gash on his other arm.

Pain washed over Saunders, intense enough to drive him to his knees. He wanted to grab the wounds, to cradle his arms close to his body, but it was impossible with his wrists tied. He hunched on the floor, dimly aware of his blood dripping onto the wooden boards. For a moment—for a moment—he'd almost believed the German, thought maybe he wasn't a torturer and a killer. Saunders heard an ugly, rasping sound and realized it was his own breathing. _For a moment._

His captor grabbed his shirt and pulled him up. The man's light, remorseless eyes held his. "The beast will smell your blood, sergeant, and desire for it will consume him. Even his wish to kill me will be secondary. That is my insurance."

Dragging Saunders with him, he flung the door open. Before them, the dark winter woods lay silent, waiting. The German's face was grim. "Now it's time to be afraid."


	6. Judas Goat

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 6: Judas Goat**_

Saunders stumbled through the snow, shivering so violently he could barely stay on his feet. The German was bundled tightly against the cold, only his watchful eyes visible above the wool scarf covering the lower half of his face. Saunders wasn't so fortunate. His jacket was still pulled down around his waist and his shirt alone afforded little warmth. Whenever he slowed, his captor tugged him by his bound hands like a recalcitrant dog pulled along on its leash.

His strength was flowing steadily out of his arms with his blood and the frigid air seared his skin, but Saunders was strangely calm. It wasn't that he didn't understand the seriousness of his predicament. Unless he could escape, he'd bleed to death or freeze before the night was out, but neither possibility was as bad as the demise he'd expected. He felt the coiled tension in his captor's grip, a manifestation of the man's anxiety. _You can be scared for both of us, kraut._

The German strode purposefully through the trees, winding between twisted trunks, barely pausing to take his bearings. He seemed to know every inch of the forest, and Saunders remembered how he'd led them to shelter the previous night. The sergeant wondered how often in the past the German had used the cabin as a base while he indulged his strange, lonely obsession.

They plunged deeper and deeper into the forest with only the light of the moon to guide them. An icy branch whipped Saunders' face, startling him from his thoughts with a new, sharp pain. The German halted suddenly, drawing his Reichsrevolver, and Saunders followed his gaze. In the darkness to their left, unblinking eyes marked their progress.

"That your beast?"

The German shook his head but didn't return the gun to its holster. "It's only an _eule_—an owl," he whispered, ignoring Saunders' tone. He scanned their surroundings with narrowed eyes. "You'd do well to take the danger seriously."

"Why? I'm just bait, right?" Saunders' teeth were chattering, but his anger came through loud and clear. "'Cause you didn't have a sheep or goat, so you thought you'd kill a man."

"I told you the creatures are intelligent," the German hissed. "Do you think I'd trouble myself with you if an animal would do? You thwarted Dubois. He had me where he wanted me and the unsuspecting maquis were ready to do his dirty work for him. He possessed my gun and knife. In his mind, he'd won. Then you came along and in an instant he lost everything." The German's cold eyes shifted to Saunders' face. "Next to me, you are the person he hates most. That is why the sacrifice has to be you." He snorted, his breath making a fine mist in the air. "He's not stupid enough to be tempted by a goat. You should try not to be stupid, either. Come along!" Jerking Saunders forward, his captor waded through a deep drift, dragging his unwilling prisoner behind him.

X X X

"Do you recognize this place, sergeant?"

Saunders didn't answer. The moment they'd stopped again, he'd fallen to his knees and now he was unable to rise. Snow pillowed around his legs, cocooning them in a frigid blanket. A soft moan escaped his teeth. He was so cold he could barely breathe. He didn't want to think about the frostbite on his feet and fingers, but it really didn't matter anymore. His long march from Omaha Beach was almost over.

Struggling to focus, Saunders glanced around, trying to take in as much information about their surroundings as possible. Old habits die hard. He would, too. Even in his current state, Saunders wasn't ready to throw in the towel. If the German expected the lamb to go quietly to the slaughter, he had another thing coming.

"Well?"

Saunders shook his head once, violently. Even if he tried to speak, he didn't think any words would form.

"This is the Wolf's Glen, where you saved my life," his captor said quietly. "I thank you for that, and for the sacrifice you'll make here." He squatted close to his prisoner. "Tell yourself this, sergeant—it's likely you would have been killed soon anyway. You're a front-line soldier. What were your chances of ever making it home?" The German laid a comradely hand on Saunders' shoulder. "There's no death you could experience in combat, no good you could do killing my countrymen, that is equal to the good your death here will accomplish. This part of France will be freed from a great evil soon, thanks to you."

"Trying to make me feel better, or yourself?" Saunders said savagely. His voice was harsh, sandpaper on metal. "Why do you care about good or evil? You've traded your soul to the Devil, right?"

"It isn't his yet." The German stood abruptly, nostrils flaring as his gaze swept in a wide arc. He held the Reichsrevolver at the ready, bracing the big gun with both hands, searching the darkness. "This is where we part ways, sergeant. I must move downwind. The beast is coming, and when he arrives it will be best if he finds you alone here."

Sand was flowing out of the hourglass and Saunders felt his chances slipping away. Perhaps once the German moved off he could escape, but he knew the man would be hidden nearby, watching. Despite the assurance the bullet wasn't intended for him, the German would never let him leave. He would force Saunders to sit in the snow all night if necessary, slowly dying while he played out his fantasy about monsters.

"At least… at least help me stand before you go." Saunders made no effort to hide his exhaustion and pain. "I want to die standing." The German paused and turned back halfway. "Please."

The German nodded, shifting the Reichsrevolver to his left hand as he leaned over to pull the sergeant up with the right.

It wasn't much of an opening, but it was more than Saunders had hoped for. He surged upwards, slamming his head into the German's face. Caught off balance, the man fell backwards, blood streaming from his nose. The Reichsrevolver flew from his hand, sinking into the snow. The German shook his head hard, flecks of blood spattering the ground as he leaped to his feet, but Saunders had already reached the gun. He threw himself onto it, rolling onto his back and pointing his trophy at his captor. The German kept coming, undeterred, but it only took Saunders an instant to realize why.

His hands were so cold he could barely hold the gun, but he slammed the hammer back with his thumb. _Like your Colt Peacemaker,_ the German had said. That meant the revolver was single-action and had to be cocked before it could be fired. The German stopped in his tracks then, turned to stone. Saunders' finger shook on the trigger.

"Sergeant," his captor said quietly, "you're making a mistake. If you waste the bullet now, the beast will tear you apart."

"What beast?" Saunders stumbled to his feet. His legs were numb and he was reeling like a drunken man, but he managed to keep his adversary covered. "There's no beast here except you!" The frustrated shout echoed off the sides of the hill, reverberating through the frozen stockade of trees.

"That's not true." The German's eyes flicked to something beyond Saunders' shoulder and the sergeant saw him stiffen.

"Nice try, kraut, but I'd be a fool to trust you."

"Why? I've never lied."

Saunders cast out with his impaired senses, listening for something other than his own ragged breathing. The kraut was holding his breath, waiting, but at the edge of the sergeant's hearing something exhaled in the stillness, quiet and deep as a bellows. Slowly, keeping the gun trained on his captor, Saunders turned around.

A shadow moved out of the trees. It was as large as a bear, but that was where the resemblance ended. Its gait was as smooth as a greyhound's, not awkward or lumbering. As the sergeant watched, frozen in amazement, it rose on its back legs and let out a low snarl. Cold, yellow eyes, shining with intelligence greater than any animal possessed, locked on its prey. The creature's breath huffed louder as its muscles gathered, then it flung itself forward onto all four legs and swept towards them like a storm.

"Sergeant!"

Saunders snapped his head around at the desperate shout. The German's expression wasn't one of anger, or even terror, but he recognized it instantly. He'd seen that look on Hanley's face more times than he wanted to count when a new replacement was suddenly caught in the line of fire, too shocked to move the inches that would save his life. It was compassion, dread, and sorrow, all rolled into one.

In that instant, Saunders understood. He'd been drafted against his will into a strange war he couldn't comprehend and now he was paying for his innocence. But he was a hardened veteran of many battles, not a green kid.

"It's a free shot," the German shouted. "You can't miss—the bullet follows the command of your will alone!"

Saunders spun away, training the Reichsrevolver on the creature barreling towards him. His vision was blurring, the monster reduced to a shadow once more even as it drew frighteningly close. His strength was failing, the gun too heavy for his wounded arms to hold much longer. As the world collapsed, Saunders pulled the trigger.


	7. Saunders' Decision

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 7: Saunders' Decision**_

It was pain in his arms that woke Saunders from what should have been his final sleep. Before he opened his eyes, his first thought was that he must be in Hell, because he doubted he could hurt so much if he were in Heaven. Dread gripped him and he moaned softly in denial, unable to accept damnation. He was a soldier with a soldier's sins, but he'd never allowed himself to become a monster. It had been a close thing sometimes, though. Perhaps there was too much darkness on his soul to expect it to find peace. He shivered uncontrollably, pushing against the blackness surrounding him.

His struggles were met with soft curses. Biting back another moan, Saunders scrubbed his face against coarse wool. Hands shifted on his body and the tension on his wounded arms lessened. He wasn't alone. The realization brought a flood of relief and he clung to consciousness with numb fingers and reeling senses. There was another person with him, someone solid he could hold onto as the pain crashed over him. Then his fingers were gently peeled loose and he felt himself lowered, the ground cold and wet under his back. _Snow._ Memories flooded in, giving Saunders the strength to open his eyes.

"Kraut," he muttered.

He was no longer in the Wolf's Glen but tall trees still surrounded him on all sides. He was lying on the ground, the German leaning across him, filling his field of vision. Saunders flinched at the Death's Head on his cap, but as his eyes swept over the man's uniform he noticed tracks of fresh blood striping the worn gray jacket. He realized with a jolt his adversary had carried him from the field of battle.

"Kraut," Saunders said again, this time with a note of wonder.

In the muted light before dawn the German's face was placid, like the surface of a deep pool. "Max," he said, a slight smile quirking his lips, "although 'kraut' will do."

"Why?" There were so many questions but Saunders didn't know how long he'd last, so he settled for the simplest. "Why am I still alive?"

"The beast never touched you. There was no need to administer the _coup de grâce_." The German's hand rested lightly on the hilt of the long knife, now sheathed on his belt.

"That thing…" Saunders struggled to get the words out. "You'd have killed me if it had bitten me?"

"I would have had no choice. I couldn't destroy one monster and allow another to be born. I told you that," the German said with a touch of exasperation. "I explained it all."

"Yeah." Saunders closed his eyes, gathering what little strength he had as he took stock of the situation. The German had pulled his jacket up and buttoned it, but his wrists were still bound. Even though the man had spared his life, he obviously considered him a prisoner. Saunders' jaw tightened. It was impossible to think he could trick his captor again and escape, but he hated the idea of being carried helplessly back to enemy lines.

"Where are you taking me?" He was shivering so hard he could barely speak, much less fight to get free.

The German's eyebrow rose in surprise. "Back to the cabin, of course." He smiled his familiar, mocking smile. "That's where your loyal men will come to retrieve your body, isn't it? Surely you don't believe they'll obey your orders and stay away." He pulled his canteen out of his coat and regarded the sergeant solemnly. "You're very ill and have lost a lot of blood, but perhaps if you rest quietly and take some water your friends will discover the corpse still has breath in it."

He held the canteen out and Saunders ground his teeth together, balling his hands into fists. He was desperately thirsty but he hesitated as he thought of Gates again, crawling to Steiner's feet. His expression hardened and he shook his head fiercely, a single, pain-filled jerk.

The German sighed. "Defiance is a noble thing, but now you're just being foolish. Perhaps this will make your situation clearer." He drew his knife and cut the ropes from his prisoner's wrists while Saunders watched, unflinching. He examined the sergeant's swollen fingers, his expression impassive, then gently unclenched them. "There is no shame here, no insult offered," he said quietly, "only the choice between life and death." He looked away, focusing on the soft light filtering between the empty branches. "You must decide. Neither of us can afford to waste time. You're dying and I'll be as good as dead if your men reach the cabin before we do. Your private yearns to peel the flesh from my bones." He gave a little laugh, his flashing eyes catching Saunders'.

The German's tone was insolent, but Saunders found it didn't bother him as it had before. Slowly, the tension drained from his face as he allowed himself to relax. The kraut had been right all along: he was afraid of the SS uniform and it had colored his behavior from the beginning. And he was still reacting to it, even though he knew better.

_You must decide._ Saunders drew a shuddering breath and reached for the canteen. His arm was shaking and his hand would never grip it, but the German understood the gesture. He met Saunders halfway, holding the canteen steady while the sergeant guided it to his lips. Saunders drank deeply, accepting the greatest gift he'd ever been given, barely feeling the German's hand cupping the back of his neck. When the water was gone the German nodded, satisfied, and lowered the wounded man's head. Saunders rested for a moment, his fevered mind clearing, washed clean.

"What will you do now?"

"Go home. Fight." The German tucked the canteen back in his pocket, frowning when he noticed Saunders' expression change. "_Nein, nein_, not like you are thinking. I told you I have no interest in your war." He stood abruptly, looking down at the man lying at his feet. "You've inspired me, sergeant. You were meant to be a sacrifice but you proved yourself a soldier and cheated death. If you could change your fate perhaps I can change mine, too." He paced back and forth, his fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh. "Can I deny the Devil his sacrifice? Is such a thing imaginable? I don't know, won't know if I've succeeded until the moment of my death, but it's worth trying, isn't it?" He glanced up, his expression troubled, looking to Saunders for reassurance.

"You know the answer."

"Then that's what I must do: fight for my soul." The German nodded decisively and drops of blood spattered on the snow. He dabbed his nose with his gloved hand, stemming the flow. "You have a hard head, sergeant."

"I've been told that."

The German laughed, his cold eyes shining. "Come! I can't let you rest longer. It isn't good to lie in the snow. You will have pneumonia if you don't already."

Carefully, he pulled Saunders to a sitting position. The world spun, the tree trunks blurring into a kaleidoscope of browns and grays. Saunders clenched his teeth, allowing pain to anchor him in the world of the living. It took all his strength and the German's to get him on his feet. Leaning on the man's shoulder, they began their slow march. Saunders wondered what his men would think if they happened upon them now: the tall German in his SS uniform and the blood-soaked GI, hanging onto him unashamedly.

"May I give you advice, sergeant? It might prove useful in the event you recover and find yourself in the fight again," the German said as they hobbled along.

Saunders grunted. It was a struggle just to remain conscious and put one foot in front of the other.

"When you take prisoners, be sure to treat them humanely but also check their boots for knives."

"I usually do both," Saunders said gruffly.

The German smiled slightly, shifting the American so that he took more of the wounded man's weight. Saunders stayed with him until the little cabin came into sight, then the world went black.


	8. Pray for me

**The Winter Beasts**

_**Chapter 8: Pray for me**_

The only thing more frightening than waking in pain was waking with no feeling in his body at all. When Saunders became aware of himself again, he was engulfed in a dark, sensationless sea. He would have welcomed the icy winds against his face, the jostling of being carried, even the sting of frostbite ruining his fingers. He was completely alone, and that was more disconcerting than the ache of his wounds.

"Kraut?" Was his voice really that weak? Saunders couldn't believe the German had left him for dead after all the trouble he'd gone through to bring him back.

"Kraut!"

"Hey, take it easy." A warm, familiar voice broke through the darkness surrounding him. "The kraut's gone. He can't hurt you. He won't ever touch you again."

"Lieutenant?" Saunders pried his eyes open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Hanley was leaning over him just as the German had, a relieved smile tempering the storm in his eyes.

"Did you… you didn't kill him?"

"He wasn't here," Hanley said curtly. There was no doubt in Saunders' mind the lieutenant regretted that intensely.

"Where am I?" Saunders started to sit up, but Hanley gently pressed him down. Twisting his neck, the sergeant saw Caje and Kirby sitting on the floor nearby. Kirby was shamefaced, but Caje was electric with fury.

"We're in the cabin," Hanley said. "Don't you remember? The kraut cut you up, but Doc's given you morphine. Are you in pain at all?"

Saunders shook his head. He couldn't feel anything. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," Doc muttered, refusing to meet the sergeant's eyes. He indicated the IV running into Saunders' arm. "I need to give you a unit before we try to move you." He shook his head. "It's lucky you were able to get your hands loose. You could've bled to death. Good thing you stayed conscious long enough to tie something around the wounds."

Saunders shifted the blanket covering him enough to look underneath. His wet clothes had been removed, leaving him in his shorts and undershirt. Lengths of gauze were wrapped around his upper arms much more competently than he could ever have managed. He could hardly believe the German had taken the time to care for him, given the risk. He flexed his hand gingerly. His fingers were still swollen with frostbite, but they didn't look too bad. "How're my feet?"

"If you hadn't gotten out of those wet boots and under a blanket, you'd be lookin' at losing some toes," Doc said. He was exhausted and it occurred to Saunders that the man hadn't slept since he'd left the sergeant with the German. "I thought for sure that bastard would kill you," the medic continued, "but you've got the devil's own luck!"

"Yeah," Saunders said softly. "I guess I do." He tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat. "How about some water?"

He didn't have the strength to reach for the canteen this time, but he didn't need it. Kirby raised his head while Hanley helped him drink. They were falling over themselves trying to assist him, except for Caje, who sat apart, glowering.

As Saunders drank, Doc said, "There's something I don't understand. Why were your clothes soaked, Sarge?"

"Why do you think?" Caje snarled before Saunders could answer. "After that bastard cut him up, he put him in the snow to try to make him talk." He turned on Saunders angrily. "Didn't he?"

"Caje…" Saunders knew the private was beating himself up, taking the blame for something that had never been his fault. "Caje…"

"_Merde!_ Don't say 'Caje' to me like it's all nothing! How can you stand to look at us? We ran away like a pack of cowardly dogs!"

"You obeyed orders," Saunders corrected. "There wasn't any choice." He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath filled with quiet joy. His squad was safe, it was bright morning, and he had lived to see it. _Despite so many mistakes. _"It was my fault, anyway. I was too careless. I should've searched him better."

"I wish we'd never taken him prisoner," Kirby said. "Shoulda let that Frenchman—Dubois—kill him. If we had, Dubois would still be alive."

"Kirby!" Saunders looked at Hanley sharply and the lieutenant sighed. "I didn't want to upset you. I'd planned to tell you later, when you were better." His dark eyes were solemn. "I think Dubois may have saved your life. Looks like he came by here and the kraut chased after him and left you alone. Another patrol found his body in the forest this morning."

"How did he die?" Saunders' voice was expressionless.

Hanley shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter…"

"How did he die?"

The lieutenant frowned at Saunders' persistence. "They found him naked in the snow with a bullet in his heart." He glanced at the sergeant worriedly, but Saunders only narrowed his eyes. Hanley wished he knew what he was thinking. Saunders was tough—Hanley would never underestimate him—but he was amazed he could be so calm. Maybe it was the morphine, blunting the worst of the memories. He hated to think of Saunders in that monster's power, to imagine what his friend had endured in the lonely cabin. "I wish I could get my hands on him," he muttered savagely.

"I'll go after him and kill him," Caje offered.

"You'll never find him." Saunders said quietly, relieved to know it was true. "Let it go."

"How can you ask me to do that?"

"Because I know what'll happen if you don't." Saunders' eyes were soft with approaching sleep. "The next time we take a prisoner you'll be thinking about what happened here. You'll be scared you'll get tricked again. Fear can weigh on you and make you do things you shouldn't, things that aren't worthy of you."

"Can you let it go? Just like that?"

"Yeah." Saunders looked Caje straight in the eye. He thought of Steiner. The man was a bastard, but he was dead and the memory had no hold over him any more. "Yeah, I can. I have to."

"Saunders?" Hanley leaned in close, resting a hand on his arm. "I can't let you go to sleep yet. I've got to ask you something." His expression was troubled. "I hate to, but I've got no choice."

Saunders wondered if morphine could confer the ability to read minds as well as take away pain, because he knew exactly what was bothering the lieutenant. "You need to know if I talked."

Hanley flushed. "I know you wouldn't, but sometimes it's hard, you know? Things happen differently than you intend…." He broke off, ignoring the low growl that came from Caje's throat. "Did he ask you questions, anything at all about troop deployments or objectives?"

Saunders shook his head. He tried to think of what he could say, what explanation would possibly make sense. "He wasn't interested in stuff like that."

"Wasn't interested…?" Hanley looked nonplussed. "Well, what did he talk about?"

"He told stories," Saunders said finally. "He just… told stories."

Hanley shot Doc a sharp look. "Is he out of his head?"

"Probably." Doc laid a gentle hand on Saunders' forehead. "He's burning up. I'm surprised he made sense this long. Look, lieutenant, can the questions wait? The IV's done and we need to get him back as soon as possible. He's real sick."

"Yeah, they can wait." Hanley stood and motioned for the others to get their gear. "Caje, take Saunders' things. We're moving out."

Caje slung Saunders' pack over his shoulder, but when his picked up the sergeant's blood-soaked shirt a small note fell out of the pocket. He cursed softly and thoroughly as he scanned it.

"What does it say?" Kirby looked over his shoulder. "_Pray for me__,_" he read aloud. "Why, that damn bastard! Why the hell would you pray for him?"

On the verge of unconsciousness, Saunders heard Kirby's indignant exclamation. He knew he would have to report to Hanley eventually, that he owed them all an explanation, but it didn't have to be today. Darkness stretched before him, but it wasn't the frightening blackness of the winter woods. It was healing sleep that beckoned, free of nightmares and monsters.

Taking a deep breath, Saunders surrendered.

X X X

The hunter knelt behind a large rock, his cold eyes trained on the cabin in the clearing. He was dressed in the manner of a French farmer—plain, warm clothes that wouldn't draw a second glance. If anyone looked more closely, they might wonder about the German boots he wore and the American rifle he carried, but these days questions were rarely asked. Desperate people took whatever they found, and he was no different.

He'd barely had time to wipe out his tracks and hide before the Americans arrived. They'd stormed into the cabin half an hour earlier and hadn't come out. He took that as a good sign. If the sergeant had died, they would have no reason to stay. By his reckoning, the longer they were in there, the better.

He stiffened as the door of the cabin opened. The lieutenant come out first, casting around to make sure everything was safe. The hunter smiled a thin, insolent smile. If he wanted, he could pick the man off easily with his stolen M-1. No sniper was as good a shot as he was, even without magic bullets.

The two privates appeared next, carrying a stretcher between them. Even at a distance, the hunter could make out the sergeant's hair glinting in the morning light. The man was wrapped closely in a layer of blankets, the medic hovering watchfully beside him. The little procession moved away through the trees and the hunter felt a twinge of jealousy. He knew so much about the dark forces moving beneath the surface of society, but so little about the kind of friendship and devotion the Americans had displayed. He'd tried to mock, to brush it off, but he couldn't. It wasn't good to always be alone. It was time to leave the darkness behind, to bequeath his battle to younger men. He had another fight to think about.

"_What will you do now?"_ the American had asked, and he had answered, _"Go home."_

Soon the war would come to his country, probably by the spring thaw. He couldn't bring himself to take up arms, but wherever there was war there were civilians in need of protection. He'd served the country folk of France for so long, even though they never knew it. It was time he helped his own people survive the ravages of war. Perhaps it would be enough to save his soul. At least, it would be a start.

The hunter stood, stretching his long legs, and swung his heavy pack onto his back. He'd taken the Americans' rations in exchange for their sergeant, but he didn't think they'd mind the trade. He had a long way to walk before he could rest.

Turning his face towards the sun, the hunter put the lonely cabin behind him and disappeared like a shadow into the forest.


End file.
